


all true trophies of the age

by Mira_Jade



Series: woman, how divine your mission [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: . . . and Hamilton's problematic love-life, . . . and lack there-of, . . . really how he wasn't caught in a duel earlier in life is a mystery, Character Study, Eighteenth Century morality, Gen, How Hamilton the Cat got his name, I'll see your Washing!dad and raise you a Martha!mom, Proudly featuring the Ladies of the Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7376887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I'm sorry, ma'am, but you decided to name the cat</i> what<i>?”</i></p><p>Wherein the springtime of 1777 has quite infected the Continental soldiers with its zest, blurring the ever fine line between love and war - much to the exasperation of the commanding officers . . . and their wives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all true trophies of the age

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, this is going to be a series now, and oh, the _ideas_ I have.
> 
> As with the last vignette, my title is stolen from William Ross Wallace's _The Hand that Rocks the Cradle_ , as is the shiny new title for the series as a whole. I had too much fun including various little historical breadcrumbs, so there are notes listing such at the bottom, should you wish to glance at them for reference. And, as a last note: this story became _very_ heavy on characters that are not included in the musical, so I suppose that you could call this more of a Revolutionary War RPF than _Hamilton_ fan-fiction. _But_ , Lin-Manuel Miranda's characters were very much present in my mind while writing this, and I tried to give descriptions of the additional characters in such a way that you can continue to imagine a diverse cast in your mind. That was my intention while writing, and, that said, I hope that you enjoy my humble efforts to contribute to a truly fantastic fandom. Really, you guys are the best.

The winter past had been a surprisingly mild season; mostly chilly and damp next to the deep bone freeze and sleek drifts of heavy snow, piling to stand as high as a man was tall, she had known the year before in Cambridge. While the unusually lackluster season may have felt a respite to her Virginian blood, the comparatively warm weather allowed sickness to thrive in their camp, and the constant thawing and refreezing of the ground made muddy swamps of the terrain, turning the foraging all but nonexistent and oftentimes sticking their carts of munitions and foodstuffs motionless in the roads. As it ever was, wintertime in an army camp was as much a test of endurance as it was a much needed respite from the day-to-day hardships born by the rigors of war. With the weather constantly teasing them with glimpses of spring-like warmth, well before the true thaw of the season, the men were restless for a break from the boredom and anticipation of waiting. Since their final, surprise campaigns at Christmas and the dawn of the new year, their simply scuffling with Cornwallis' supply trains and defending their furthest outposts from the probing British was not nearly enough to sooth the restless want for _more_ in the spirits of the men, still high on their victories from Princeton and Trenton as they were.  
  
Yet, just as they had the entirety of the winter to gain a much needed rest and boost of morale from their victories, so too had their enemy time to stew and plan their retaliation in return – this, George was ever one to quietly mutter in a sobering reminder of the true obstacles they had awaiting them in the months to come. The veritable youth he commanded could cheer and sound their challenges by the evening fires, but he would not. He could not as he quietly stared at the maps and reports from his generals, day in and day out, resolutely preparing for the challenges awaiting his army. For, once they left their well cocooned safe-haven in the hills, as a wolf sleeping at the door they would have . . .  
  
However, that was a thought on which Martha Washington could not yet dwell, especially when knowing that her own time with her husband was fast approaching its end for the season. She would return, first to Philadelphia and then home to Mount Vernon, while George would march . . .  
  
. . . but no . . _no_. As long as she stubbornly held to the belief that she would see her husband again, she would. Anything else was simply anathema to her mind, and she refused to dwell on such fears until she was forced to confront the cold reality of their fulfillment. Especially, this she resolved within herself, on such a day as the one they were currently enjoying.  
  
The arrival of April brought with it the first blush of true spring to New Jersey. Within weeks, the hardy little crocus bulbs first sprouting up through the thawing ice and snow were joined by wild daffodils and periwinkle and tulips in every imaginable shade and hue. They bloomed unchecked to carpet the hills with their cacophony of scent and color, just as the cherry trees and dogwood and sweet magnolia budded and released their flowers in the branches overhead, filling the once barren canopy with a ripe crown of new life.  
  
As the daylit hours lengthened and the sun crested in higher and higher arcs across the noontide sky, the men did not begrudge the task of having to ride out further and further still to find grazing for their horses. Rather, the duty became a coveted one, with the men instead appreciating the fresh air and exercise the task permitted - so much so that when Colonel Bland mentioned that his dragoons were taking a day trip into the surrounding hills to exercise their mounts, his wife Martha Bland – one of the many spouses then in camp, stealing time with her husband before the summer season of war began anew - suggested that they all take a saddle in doing so. There were restless horses aplenty who needed to work the winter from their legs, and a matching soul for each, equally in need of the refreshment of movement and renewed purpose. It took little more than the idea being voiced before George approved the endeavor, and their plans were made in earnest.  
  
Although, more so than most, Martha simply knew that there were few places in life where her husband was more comfortable than astride a horse. George was merely happy to approve a plan that served the collective well-being of their group, rather than his preferences alone. With the weather that day a perfect blend of cool breezes and warm sunlight peaking down through the fluffy white clouds, she could almost close her eyes and pretend that they were home in Virginia, leading a party of their friends through the seemingly endless trails alongside the Potomac. Indeed, it was one of the rare moments she'd had in camp that felt truly displaced from the war, just waiting for them beyond their sanctuary in the hills.  
  
For theirs was a sanctuary, Martha reminded herself as she reined her black gelding away from investigating a tempting patch of clover, that remained such only through the vigilance of their men. Posted at intervals around their happy riding party, wary looking sentries kept a careful watch – both those young soldiers in their familiar buff and blue uniforms, and the more sobering reminder of her husband's personal guard with their tall white and navy feathers standing high from their caps, much like the Roman sentinels of old. Her eyes traced over one such unblinking man, studying the trees they passed as if waiting for a threat to emerge from the eaves, and felt her joy take on a grey note at the sobering reminder of their circumstances.  
  
Even so, she made a line of her jaw to resolve within herself: if George could ignore the ever present reality of the dangers they faced with good cheer, then so could she. Holding that thought firmly in mind, she turned her eyes to where her husband rode at the head of their convoy. Though she imagined that few others would notice, she could see where the set of his shoulders and the line of his spine was tight, no matter that his seat in the saddle was as natural and easy as it ever was. His fingers flexed about the reins as if he wished to give Blueskin his head – with the high-spirited grey stallion clearly sharing his master's restless temperament with his prancing hooves and tossing mane – and allow him to run. Instead, he held Blueskin to a brisk walk and politely conversed with Brigadier General William Alexander, the Earl of Stirling, riding at his right hand, and the ever present Greene couple at his left. For there were, this Martha wryly acknowledged, few things that could keep George to such a sedate pace as the demands of one Catharine Greene on his attention.  
  
Surely enough, Catharine - Caty, as she was more fondly known - had claimed the spot closest to the general, and was chatting as briskly and amiably as ever. Her smiles were wide and her eyes were infectiously sparkling as she continuously caught George's gaze - as if he were a favourite uncle to dote upon, rather than the commander-in-chief of the Continental army. It seemed to matter but little to Caty that her own husband, Major General Nathanael Greene, kept primarily to silence out of an earlier spoken – and quite summarily ignored – worry of his wife overextending herself so soon after bringing their daughter into the world, not even two months prior. Nathanael kept a careful eye on Caty's every move, but, eventually, his wife's good cheer had even his worried frown giving way to begrudging smiles. Truly, Martha wished to give the spirited girl the world when George laughed outright at one of her quick witted anecdotes – for such a sound had become much too rare to her ears since the dawn of the war . . . much too rare indeed.

The good humor of the day was infectious, and, quite simply put, Martha enjoyed riding just a stride behind and watching her husband as he took in the respite it provided. So much were her thoughts that she had to remind herself to pay polite attention to her own companions – to Martha Bland on her left and Sarah Alexander, Countess of Stirling, on her right - with the younger woman and older woman, respectively, having quite carried on their conversation while her mind was otherwise occupied. She blinked when she heard her name mentioned - some compliment for the surprising level of good company and sufficient, if somewhat rugged, comfort there was to find at their Morristown camp - and she focused on Martha Bland to hear:  
  
“I must confess, I was first wary when Theodorick requested that I winter with him; I jumped at every bump in the road from Virginia to New Jersey, quite certain that something unspeakable was awaiting the carriage at every corner. Yet, to my delight, the company here has been as agreeable as any I would have known at Kippax.” She gave a delighted little laugh, and, for all that the pitch and shape of her words would first paint her as a soft lady who knew little more than the comfort of her husband's good fortune, she managed her fidgety bay mount with an ease that betrayed her as an expert horseman's wife. “Rather, the war has taken the best of our young men from Petersburg; home, I would have found that a gaping wound when setting my table, and yet, now . . .”  
  
Martha Bland arched an ebony brow, and made no secret of her looking over her shoulder to where the rest of their party filed down the trail. Just behind them rode the Livingston sisters, with the ever regal Sarah Livingston Jay on the edge of the path and her sister Catharine – Kitty, as she was more affectionately known – at her right. Kitty was a beautiful girl, with laughing dark eyes and a head full of equally dark curls that delicately bounced with every graceful move she made. Such, Martha reflected while keeping her polite expression fixed, was a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the men in their camp - much to the girl's pleasure, or so it seemed. With that thought firmly in mind, to Kitty's right, surely enough, was the one man she'd first suspect to see basking in her shade. Martha did not sigh so much as slowly narrow her eyes to see Alexander Hamilton posting a lazy trot so that he could equally bestow his attentions upon Kitty Livingston, his old favourite since first coming to America, and the Lady Catherine Alexander to his right.  
  
The daughter of Lord and Lady Stirling, Lady Kitty – to round out their group of 'cats' – was a young woman whose youth seemed even more pronounced by her shy smiles and gentle demeanor. She wore her brown tresses in the new style of the French queen, with not a hair out of place from her high roll, just as her rich green riding habit fairly shone against the warm tones of her skin and the polished, copper coloured coat of her mare. Her hands were dainty in her soft yellow gloves against the reins, and she kept her seat in the side-saddle as if she were a ripple upon still waters. She was every bit a slim bloom of new life to match the spring around them, and there were few men in camp who were not enchanted by the girl's unpracticed charms.  
  
Behind Alexander and the women, John Laurens rode with Theodorick Bland and Colonel William Duer, and the three were quite happy to discuss the breeding of horses and the growing sport of racing the creatures in America. At last, following them, the ever exuberant Knox couple finished out their party – with a very boyish young James Monroe trapped between Major General Henry Knox and his wife Lucy as they traded one ribald story after the next. Lord Stirling's aide bore it with grace, Martha thought, no matter that he continued to glance at the ladies in front of him with the wide eyes of a growing boy who had spent the cusp of manhood on the battlefield, rather than in the drawing rooms of polite society. She tucked away a grin when James realized that he had been caught staring at Lady Kitty, and that grin only grew when the boy ducked his head away from her knowing probe with a blush painting his cheeks a dark shade of telling crimson.  
  
“Indeed,” Martha Bland continued as she slyly turned her eyes to look ahead on the trail again. “I have met nothing but polite, sociable young men since arriving. Each one of them have been nothing but eagerness to go through every pain to make the days pass with a great deal of satisfaction for their visitors.”  
  
Though the woman spoke only genial words, Martha picked up on the edge lining them as only years of participating in plantation sewing circles could have taught her. At her right, Lady Stirling too sat up straighter in her saddle, her senses alert to the tones of a hunting woman. Martha carefully kept her hands from flexing about the reins, lest she distract the already fidgety creature beneath her with her own disquiet.  
  
“America is well served by her young men, it is true,” slowly, Martha chose her response as if testing her syllables for weak points. A part of her fairly suspected that Martha Bland did the same. “I have met nothing but gentlemanly courtesy since wintering with the general myself.”  
  
“General Washington does surround himself with the best,” even so, Martha Bland gave what Martha knew to be a genuine expression to approve. “So much so that I'll be sad to leave, with so many clever minds and . . . _gilded tongues_ so attentively collected in one place. Their equal, I suspect, I'll not soon find again.”  
  
“Although some such silver tongues,” Lady Stirling's voice cut across the gentle serenity of the day as a current in calm waters, “should better know when to keep their silence . . . and their place.”  
  
Unerringly punctuating her mother's words, Lady Kitty's laughter was a bright, bell-like sound on the spring air. Martha glanced back in time to see the girl flush, as if she surprised even herself with such an outright display of fond regard for the man to her left. Alexander, she thought, was equality delighted by the reaction he was able to garner, and his expression held an edge of triumph to it. Pushing the bounds of propriety, Kitty Livingston leaned over in her saddle to whisper something into his ear, her lips close enough to touch, and his smile turned a hooked, roguish shape in reply to her words.  
  
Martha Bland showed her teeth when she smiled. “Not that you have anything truly serious to fear in that regard, my dear Sarah. The young men are simply all anxiousness and anticipation after such a winter as we just passed. There is no prettier girl in all of New Jersey than your daughter, and they were certainly bound to notice.”  
  
Martha pursed her mouth, then understanding the barbed shape of her friend's words as she had not before. Normally an agreeable woman, Martha Bland's inability to bring a live child into the world could, at times, turn her somewhat petty around other mothers . . . especially a mother such as Lady Stirling, who, for weeks now, had been nothing but beaming pride for the daughter she was prepared to guide off to her own household. Martha gave a sigh, well understanding the pangs of a childless marriage – indeed, such was one of the things that had first endeared her to the younger woman – but yet unable to share her bitterness and the scorn it bore. She could not, not when there were so many, she knew, who, if not born by blood, nonetheless needed . . .  
  
There was another peal of laughter from Lady Kitty, interrupting her thoughts. The sound was more subdued this time, yet it still prompted Lady Stirling's frown in reply. Her hands about the reins were tight, Martha noted, and her roan mount tossed his reddish head in an aggravated answer.  
  
“It is true, there is the notice of one I desire for my daughter, now that you say,” Lady Stirling pitched her voice as if confiding a secret, no matter that her thin brows narrowed with a sideways glance - a parrying blow. “A particular young man has expressed interest to her father, and I do confess that I hope to soon call him my son. That is . . . if the war will allow us to reach such a destination unmolested, of course.”  
  
Unspoken but clearly implied, Martha knew that Sarah did not refer to the enemy in red awaiting them just beyond their place in the hills.  
  
For a moment, her wandering gaze found George looking forlornly away from the chatter of his companions, staring down the trail as if wishing to run. She shared his sentiments in their entirety.  
  
“Such hopes are those we can all echo,” Martha found herself firmly cutting in before more words could be crossed and deflected. “There is no greater joy than to know that one's child is settled with their partner in life, and I wish every blessing upon your daughter and her happiness.”  
  
Though her words were softly pitched, she did not need to glance to her left or her right to ensure that her meaning was conveyed. As their conversation lulled with a moment's silence, she considered how best to turn their conversation towards a new topic. Yet she found that she had no need to when a scout returned to announce that there was a clearing just ahead with land suitable enough for rest and grazing. The chatter in their party then turned to the anticipation of the picnic they had brought with them to enjoy while the horses foraged, and, soon enough, they came upon a wide, sprawling meadow nestled in the deep crook between two hills. A creek ran through the middle of the low land, wide and deep enough for watering the horses while also feeding the tall grasses and blooms of periwinkle that carpeted the fields in shades of palest violet and delicate blue. By the water, there was a lone red oak tree growing, and the foliage there on the ground was sparse enough there that they could put down sheets to recline upon while they took their respite.  
  
While the men unsaddled the horses and set them off to graze, they women began setting up their picnic – or, at least, they attempted to before George spotted a flat track of ground that was long enough for a horse to extend itself in a gallop without worrying overly much for injury. He wasted no time in challenging Colonel Bland to a race, and the man accepted the invitation for the pride of all of his cavalrymen. Martha, however, did not miss the long-suffering look the colonel leveled at his equally sympathetic wife, and felt a bolt of pride pierce through her: George Washington was not known as the finest horseman in Virginia for mere flattery's sake, and this race would give her much joy to watch.  
  
Soon enough, Martha Bland was standing with the Knoxes and Greenes on the sidelines to call out encouragement to their favourites, while John Laurens and William Duer paused from unsaddling their horses so that they could try their luck against the winner. Even young James Monroe looked as if he was summoning the courage to face his commander-in-chief if he could - for which Laurens clapped him on the shoulder and encouraged him not to back down from his wish to do so.  
  
Alexander Hamilton, of course, had little interest in horses when they were not absolutely necessary to get him from one point to the next – an opinion he carried for most outdoor diversions, Martha knew. Instead, he turned his back on the race and sat down underneath the oak tree, offering an arm to both Kittys as he did so. Sarah Jay leveled a warning look at her sister as she sat down across from Alexander and next to both girls, but though her wit attempted to control the conversation, Alexander's attention was clearly heaped upon the two unwed girls, no matter Sarah's clever efforts to the contrary. Martha tried to catch his eye as she went about her preparations for the picnic, but she had the sneaking suspicion that she was being purposely ignored – a suspicion that was only confirmed when she caught his glance in passing and he too quickly looked away, color touching his cheeks before he determinedly pressed on in his speech – a drivel of some sort that ended with both Kittys laughing outright, delight obvious in their expressions. Even Sarah Jay had to tighten her jaw, fighting to keep her own smile from forming at his wordplay lest she gave him any further encouragement. It was, Martha sympathized, a feeling she knew acutely well.  
  
She continued to divert her attention between Alexander and the race, unable to keep from a pleased smile as her husband smoothly trounced Colonel Bland with a length to spare between them. A rematch was immediately decided upon, and George took the second race as well, with he and Blueskin making their speed and mobility look effortless, even next to as accompanied a horseman as Theodorick Bland. George reined his stallion in a tight circle, with Blueskin clearly protesting the order to stand still after having known the tantalizing freedom of a gallop, and invited Lord Stirling to face him next. While Lord Stirling demurred for himself, he nonetheless encouraged his aide to face the general as his champion, and young James Monroe's face blanched, his color only returning in red patches to his cheeks when George gravely extended his offer as a formal invitation.  
  
Martha watched, unable to keep the soft sort of expression from her face as she watched George patiently counsel the boy on his seat after he lost their first match. When James applied the advice and was able to keep pace the second time - even if he did not win outright - his grin was ear-splitting as a result. It was an expression that did not fade as he relinquished his place to the next contender, not even when John Laurens reached over to ruffle the flyaway curls of his hair and commend him when he took his spot back in line again. Instead, his eyes fairly beamed as he turned to watch the next match; his posture was straighter than before, poised with self-confidence, and he held his head up in an unconscious show of pride. His was a look that was becoming more and more common on the faces of the men – so many of them no more than boys, really – that her husband led, Martha knew, and she felt their pride with an answering swell of fondness in her chest.  
  
Her one living son had never much cared for displays of horsemanship, her next thought was a ghosting sort of regret against her consciousness, and George had never much pushed the matter in favor of discovering just _what_ shared pursuit Jacky would enjoy in his company. It was a middle-ground never quite reached between them, and, as ever, she wondered what would have happened if she had pushed the matter more in the beginning. Instead of protecting her last bit of Daniel . . . knowing, even then, that Jacky would be the only one of her children left unclaimed by the grave . . . if she had stood with more steel than sugar as a mother, would he now, perhaps . . .  
  
Martha looked down in order to hide her frown, studying the simple designs etched into the tin bowls that served them in place of china with the mobile conditions of their camp, remembering how her daughter, contrarily, had delighted in riding with her surrogate father. From trailing behind George as a precocious child with endless fascination for whatever interested her _papa_ , Patsy had continued to enjoy the exercise for her own sake until the frequency of her seizures made the pastime too dangerous for her to ride a mount alone. Her daughter had been so slight a young woman, more a fairy-creature than anything else near the end, and George had often taken the time to ride double with her so that she could enjoy the sunlight and fresh air without the fear of falling. As parents, they had cherished each moment they could until . . .  
  
But Martha busied herself with arranging the cheese and fruit on the simple platters, and did not allow herself to think of her lost girl again. She yet could not while holding on to any sort of composure, no matter that nearly four years had passed since heaven claimed her child. Instead, she pursed her mouth and blinked her eyes, refusing to shed tears. She tapped into her strength until she could later find a more private, suitable time for her grief.  
  
Across from her, Lady Stirling did not mind helping with the menial task of setting up refreshments for their companions, and they worked in companionable silence while paying half an ear to the young ones, and half an eye to the racing couples, until:  
  
“There is a matter of some delicacy I wished to speak with you on.”  
  
Lady Stirling waited until they were finished with their task and sitting to enjoy the fruits of their labors to address her in a solemn voice. Martha looked up from where she had been comfortably smoothing down her skirts, and smiled at the older woman to invite her words. Even so, the look held a slightly forced edge as she noticed where Sarah did not look at her, but rather, to were Alexander was still entertaining the young ladies just beyond them. She fought the urge she had to frown, already well guessing what she wished to say.  
  
“It was first against my better judgment that I allowed Kitty to accompany me to Morristown,” Lady Stirling confessed. “An army camp is not a sensible place for any woman of standing to be, let alone a young girl of marrying age amongst so many bachelor men . . . especially when so many of whom are not those that I would count as . . . “ but her words faltered, as if she was unsure of how to phrase her thoughts without sounding slighting.  
  
Yet, it did not matter: Martha understood her opinion clearly. She felt her posture instinctively stiffening, even as she kept her face masked in a carefully genial expression.  
  
Such would not be the first time Lady Stirling's thoughts on the matter were known, Martha reminded herself. From the beginning, she had procured lodgings in the village of Morristown for her daughter and nieces, rather than bunking with the army as most of the other women did – as even Martha herself did. She already had to spend months away from her husband during the warring season, and she refused to suffer even a short distance between them during the time they could steal together. If that required dwelling in a canvas tent or crude log cabin, then so be it; she would suffer worse conditions if need be, and she was far from the only woman to hold such an opinion. Indeed, it often gave George much pleasure to answer the grumbling of his men with the example the women set in giving up comforts once taken for granted in order to meet the call of duty, the necessity of _what had to be done_ in order to see their country through the pangs of its labor. In one, small way could Martha understand Lady Stirling doing so for the young women in her party. If her daughter was still alive, she herself may have done much the same to allow Patsy to accompany her . . . perhaps. And yet . . .  
  
While there were those in their ranks, unfortunately so, who were unsavory sorts with nowhere else to turn but towards a soldier's commission, so many of their men were dear boys, Martha could not help but think. They were good boys growing into exemplary men, with an idea, an _ideal_ America in their minds prompting them to pick up arms and fight for that vision to come to fruition. For them to be considered worthy only to die for their common cause, and counted unfit for suitable company otherwise . . . there, Martha could not quite agree with the older woman. Not in the slightest.  
  
“Your family seems to be enjoying themselves,” Martha continued, choosing not to comment on her last remark but for the slight sharpening of her tone. “Sarah is ever a credit to the Livingston name, and she is praised wherever she goes; just as Kitty is beloved by all she meets, though I need not tell you that. And, your daughter,” here, Martha smiled a real smile as her eyes found Lady Kitty with her face glowing underneath the spring-light shining down through the budding canopy of the oak tree. To think that, had Patsy lived, she too would be of an age with the girl . . . but no, that too was a thought for later, and only then. “Your daughter is a lovely young woman,” her smile was wistful to commend. “She has quite bloomed since last we had the pleasure of meeting, and I have wished to compliment you on such. She is a reflection of her upbringing, I believe, and what a happy reflection that is.”  
  
“Your words flatter me, I thank you. And yet . . .” Lady Stirling paused, her mouth thinning delicately to remark, “You, I fear, are not the only one to have noticed.”  
  
Indeed, she was not, Martha could admit. There was not a young man in camp who had not looked twice at the vision the girl presented after so long a time away from society – with some of the men having been with the army since Boston, months before Congress put a definitive name to their cause in declaring independence from Britain. And yet, in particular . . .  
  
. . . she glanced to where Alexander had taken to lounging on the blanket between the two Kittys. He reached up to playfully tug on a curl of Kitty Livingston's hair, drawing his hand away only when her sister swatted at his fingers with a stern chastisement. Sarah, for all the chaperone she was attempting to be, could not stop the remark Alexander gave about _cats_ and _cream_ that even had Martha narrowing her gaze and fighting the urge she had to roll her eyes heavenwards.  
  
“I've heard of your accepting Colonel Duer's offer of courtship on her behalf,” nonetheless, Martha pushed on to comment. Her eyes flickered to William Duer, the young man in question, seeing where he had just finished his turn racing Theodorick Bland, and held her own opinion as to the colonel being so absorbed with his horses when his lady was clearly paying attention to another man's flirtations. He was either trusting in their bond, or callused in his affections, Martha thought; she wished for the former and yet suspected the later. “Young William is exemplary as a soldier, from what I know of him, and I wish the two every happiness.”  
  
“Perhaps I hold a mother's bias, but I do find him amongst the best of young men, it is true,” Lady Stirling proudly picked out William with her gaze. Even so, her mouth then delicately frowned to continue, “Yet, my own regard will matter but little if he believes my daughter to be playing him for a fool.”  
  
Martha looked, and saw where Sarah had succeeded in harassing Alexander into sitting upright again. Rather than appearing chastised, however, he looked fairly charmed by her domineering ways. He told her such in as many words, prompting the girl to raise a withering brow in answer, her normally serene composure crackling around the edges. Seeing her as such seemed to delight Alexander nearly as much as the attention the two Kittys were paying him.  
  
“His intentions are harmless, I can assure you,” Martha finally spoke plainly, addressing the heart of the matter rather than dancing around the subject. “The men simply have the spring in their blood after so long a winter, and such high spirits are to be expected.” The ominously approaching summer and the warring days it promised, this Martha feared but did not say, would see to the sad death of much of their exuberance. Truly, the possibility of not seeing the dawn of another spring instead prompted many of the men to take liberties that she suspected they would not dare otherwise.  
  
“Be that as it may,” Martha sensed that the other woman was speaking delicately, no matter that she pushed on resolutely to imply, “it is as much for the matter of _blood_ that I do worry . . .”  
  
Martha felt her eyes narrow, her posture turning very, very still as she understood what Lady Stirling wished to imply without saying a derogatory word outright.  
  
“It is not my aim to offer insult,” Lady Stirling was quick to interject, seeing where even her inferring as much was met with a stony sort of chillness in reply. Her cheeks were touched with pink, and yet her eyes were clear – even bold with her determination as she resolved to press on as best she could. “From such a . . . _stock_ as his, you must acknowledge my worrying for anything more than the simple _high spirits_ you would claim. If my daughter were to find herself compromised, then the matter of her engagement would be void. I have already heard from my brother how Kitty conducted herself while young Hamilton lived in their home, and while William can raise his daughters as he wishes, I cannot - ”  
  
“ - for a bastard boy is born only to beget more bastards, is that what you wish to say?” Martha found herself challenging the other woman to voice her prejudices outright. “If any sort of compromising situation were to occur, it would matter but little that your daughter's blood is as blue as Alexander's is apparently muddied. In the end, such resulting lapses in judgment are from the doing of two, no matter their _stock_ ,” only her prior respect for, and friendship with, Lady Stirling had her biting back the scorn from her voice. Instead, her words were perfectly measured and calm, wishing not to offer insult but yet intending to make her meaning perfectly clear.  
  
“That is not what I mean to infer,” Lady Stirling attempted to regain her footing with an aura of wounded dignity. “I am only troubled - understandably so, I do think - by the attention he favors her with, as her mother. My misgivings are nothing more than that.”  
  
And yet, if Alexander were as landed and wealthy as William Duer was, such attentions would be coveted, even boasted of, Martha knew. Even so, for the sake of peace, she did not say her words aloud when her opinion had already been voiced. Instead, Martha let loose a deep breath, and aimed to comfort her friend's unfortunately relevant worries by saying, “Alexander Hamilton, for all that he knows how to spin a pretty word, honors women.” She did not say that seeing how his own, unfortunate mother struggled after being left with wounds inflicted by more than one man was no doubt the cause for that. “If your daughter desires nothing more of him, then nothing more will be sought; you need worry not.”  
  
A long moment passed. One, and then two. “I hope,” Lady Stirling chose her words delicately, “that you are right. And yet, I had wished for you to, perhaps . . .”  
  
“ - speak to him on the matter?” Martha raised a brow, amused, despite herself. “Alexander is not my son, only my husband's aide, and there is little . . .” this she acknowledged ruefully, “ . . . a _very_ little that either of us can do to check him from a course he is determined to set himself upon.”  
  
“I do not know if I would be quick to agree with you on that,” Lady Stirling's voice turned thoughtful to say. “My husband speaks highly of the way the general honors him. Of all of the starry eyed young men George Washington has gleaned from this war, the Marquis . . . the West Indian . . . they have claimed a special place of affection in his heart, or so it is whispered.”  
  
“And yet, it is for that whisper,” Martha met Lady Stirling's eyes to state with a sad certainty, “that Alexander Hamilton will be most careful to hear not a word I would say.”  
  
Her words brought a strange sort of pang to her chest, the likes of which she'd previosly known only when Jacky stood obstinately with his heels dug in the ground or when Patsy suffered from her epileptic episodes with nothing her mother could do to ease her pain. Martha frowned at the feeling, endeavoring to examine and better understand it, when -  
  
\- a shadow fell over her, and she looked up in time to see that the men had finally turned the horses away from racing so that the creatures could enjoy the grazing they so deserved. No matter the heavy shape of the words she and Lady Stirling had shared, she felt her heart turn with a fond sort of weightlessness when she saw George leaning down to offer her his hand, even as their companions opted to take their seats on the ground and enjoy the repast laid out for them.  
  
“Madam,” he invited, a playful sort of twinkling in his eyes fighting against the rigid sort of gravitas he ever adopted in public. “If you would be so kind as to grant me the honor of your company in taking a turn of the meadow, I would be most obliged.”  
  
“I do not know, would you not wish to sit, instead?” she invited him with a wave of her hand to encompass the spread they had provided, even when already knowing what his answer would be.  
  
“And waste a day such as today?” George parried. “There have been days enough spent _sitting_ throughout this winter, and I must confess myself ready for their passing.” She could see, in his gaze, where anticipation ever warred with an anxious sense of foreboding – with his endeavoring to consider not only the odds piled against them, but what it would mean for their fledgling nation if such odds were triumphed over underneath his command. It was a thought he could not quite push aside, she knew, though he clearly tried.  
  
Although she had already decided, she nonetheless adopted a look of consideration as she continued to ignore his hand. “I do not know,” Martha confessed, pressing her lips into a thoughtful line to say. “I am quite comfortable here, and you have many of your admirers to choose from if you wish for company. Why, Mrs. Greene would no doubt be delighted to - ”  
  
“ - Caty Greene, for all her charms, is not my wife.” The hand he gave to aid her rising was strong, and in a single fluid motion she found herself standing again. Martha reached out to brace a hand against his chest, feeling her heart flutter the same as it had the first time she was presented to him, all those years ago – taking in the way a life spent in the sun had darkened the already golden tones of his skin and admiring the way the wild of the frontier continued to shine from his eyes, even after his return from the wars fought under those eaves. Now that familiar gleam was joined by affection, by a warmth born from nearly two decades of companionship, and, in reply, she could not quite keep the girlish sort of smile from her mouth if she tried.  
  
Indeed, she felt quite some years younger - enjoying the vast differences between their heights as she tilted her head back to meet his eyes - as she continued to play as one much put upon. “Well then, how can I refuse such an offer as that?” finally, she capitulated, and turned so that she could walk arm in arm with her husband, away from the rest of their party.  
  
As they passed, she looked, and saw where John Laurens had sat down between Alexander and Lady Kitty, elbowing his friend and accusing him of boring the women while he turned a winning smile on each one in their turn. On Lady Kitty's opposite side, William Duer took a seat between her and Sarah Jay, and his look was measuring as Alexander carefully turned his attention to Kitty Livingston alone. Martha raised a pointed brow as they passed, and when Alexander caught her eye, he had the good grace to look abashed for a single moment before he boldly met her look with an expression that was too innocent to also be sincere.  
  
She sighed, feeling long-suffering weariness and true affection fill her by turns, and George was quick to pick up on the shape of her exhalation as they approached the happy babbling of the creek.  
  
“There is something on your mind,” he commented, “and it vexes you.”  
  
Martha could feel the coiled stillness in his body, and knew that he would do his best to alleviate any care weighing upon her mind. So, she merely patted his arm with her opposite hand and pressed closer to him to answer, “I worry for nothing more than the follies of youth. But such things shall work themselves out in their own time, as they often do.”  
  
“Ah,” George exhaled, and she looked up to see the gears in his mind turning before he sighed to say, “Alexander.”  
  
There was no question in his voice, and Martha chose to stifle her own sigh without confirming his suspicion outright. “As I said, it's nothing that I wish to speak of now. Instead, I'd prefer to simply enjoy this moment. The Lord knows that there will be too few of them in the year to come, as it is.”  
  
When George looked down at her, the expression in his eyes was sad. Sad, but also resolute. “Patsy,” his voice was a low, whispered rumble from his chest to sooth, “you know that, if I could . . .” but his words faltered, and he let the sentence lie incomplete, unfinished. He would make no promise that he could not keep, yet she had no wish for him to.  
  
“I know,” she soothed instead, leaning over to rest her head against the sleeve of his uniform and exhaling to say, “I know.”  
  
For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting the weight of her burdens press down on her before resolutely pushing her doubts and worries away. When she opened her eyes again, she allowed herself to see only the beauty of the spring – the blanketing spread of flowers and the happy play of the horses as they foraged in the clearing. She listened, and focused on the familiar rhythm of her husband's breathing and the happy chatter of the rest of their party. Beyond them, birds sang to the spring and the creek hummed a happy counterpoint to their song. Pressing herself closer to George's side, she allowed herself to focus on that, and nothing else.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
Once they returned to camp, the easy respite of the day was immediately traded in for the stark realities of their conflict. Before they scarcely had the time to dismount, George's aide Colonel Tench Tilghman was waiting with a report of some of Cornwallis' more daring maneuvers against their perimeter, and her husband was soon conferring with his generals on the timeworn matter of _wha_ _t_ _come_ _s_ _next_ now that the winter cease-fire was ending. Martha knew better than to expect the men to make time for an evening meal, and so, soon after the sun set she made sure the ring of conferring officers was provided with supper – truly, how anyone stayed fed when the women were gone was a mystery only heaven knew – and then resigned herself to an evening of retiring early and alone.  
  
Feeling strangely morose, she decided against spending time with the other woman, wanting but little to gird herself with the social niceties required of any hostess, let alone the wife of the commander-in-chief that evening. Even the temptation of entertaining the young Knox and Greene children could not quite move her heart, unable as she was to shake the image of _red_ she had glimpsed in the markers of enemy troops massed on the maps in the command tent. Theoretical knowing was one thing, and yet, to see the numbers of troops and artillery so clearly spelled out in such marching, angry lines . . . Though she had endeavored to live each moment simply for itself since the advent of their conflict – for, just as a soldier made sense of his path in such a way, so too did a soldier's wife – her determination to do so faltered that evening, and she had little desire to inflict her melancholy upon the others.  
  
Instead, Martha took the leftover scraps of meat that Cook had set aside from the officers' meal – he well knowing her habits by now – and turned back to the tent she shared with George. There, no doubt waiting for her evening meal, was a mother cat who had taken up lodging in their quarters with a litter full of newborn kittens. The pretty grey and brown tabby's first doing so had been a baffling surprise to her. Cats were common enough in their camp, and certainly welcome for the deterrent they presented against rats and mice, but for the animal to so boldly claim her place next to the brazier in their tent without a prior attachment or show of preference was an unexpected development. _It's no doubt the warmest place in camp, she's simply being a canny mother,_ George had pointed out when they first found her nesting – which was certainly a true enough statement. While the last thing Martha wanted was special attention paid to her as a woman, the normally rationed fuel for the night-lamps was somehow always doubled in her case, and she had given up trying to argue with the young man who delivered the coal. In her own way, she did appreciate the small luxury, and as it was something her husband too benefited from she eventually learned to accept it. _Let her stay, she'll cause no harm here_ , had been George's final decision on the matter. Anyone who'd first raised a brow and commented to see the general surrounded by newborn kittens learning to take their first wobbling steps was treated with a frosty eye – and, in some cases, subsequent rounds of night-watches - until they learned not to think twice of it.  
  
Martha was particularly inclined to grant the feline and her kittens a safe-haven, especially since she firmly suspected that the batch of kittens was due to her other adopted stray – a strutting tomcat with a stunning tawny coat and beautiful green-gold eyes. The tom, in the way of such beautiful creatures, seemed to know of his appeal, and he clearly considered himself to be the king of their camp by right of conquest. As such, he was often to be found at her skirts whenever she went about her duties – such as now, though she highly suspected that his following her was for the dish of scraps she held in hand, rather than for the pleasure of her company.  
  
That thought had an amused smile cutting through her melancholy, so much so that it took her a moment to realize that, as she passed the camp's perimeter, there was a ruckus from one of the night watchmen, questioning a man looking for entrance just beyond. As there was nothing particularly out of the ordinary with that, Martha was at first inclined to pass them by without thinking twice, and yet:  
  
“Dammit, Smith, you _know_ me,” came the somewhat petulant voice from over the wall . . . the petulant and _familiar_ voice, she knew with a flash of recognition. Drawn short, she paused to better hear the voice argue his case for entry “Now, it's night and it's _cold_ , and I'd simply like to come in and retire at an honest hour - ”  
  
“ - sad to say,” came the voice of their sentry, his tone carrying a noticeable note of glee as his fellow two watchmen chuckled behind their hands, “I can't let any pass after dark who don't know the password. You know, there are those about with dishonest intents an' all, pardon the implications, sir. We can't be too careful in days such as these - ”  
  
“ - _dishonest intentions?_ Smith, we've rode together since White Plains, and if your eyesight is truly as challenged as your hearing, it will be my personal recommendation to the general that you are reassigned to digging _latrines_ for the rest of this conflict, am I speaking clearly enough _now?_ ”  
  
“Excuse me for sayin' so, sir, but I'd rather you tell the general that I did my duty, rather than allowed an unconfirmed such person to enter - ”  
  
“ - _unconfirmed?_ Smith, it's me; it's _Alexander Hamilton_ , as in Lieutenant Colonel and aide-de-camp to General _god-damned_ Washington. Now, if you would kindly let me pass - ”  
  
“Not without the password,” came the somewhat delighted sing-song of Sargeant Smith's voice, and Martha sighed though her nose, understanding the issue with a flare of long-suffering bemusement. How Alexander, for being one of the greatest minds she'd ever had the pleasure to converse with, could also be so absentminded as to forget something as simple as the safe-word to reenter camp, she did not know. And yet -  
  
“You may let him pass, Sargeant,” Martha called out, stepping from the shadows into the faint light cast by the sentry's lantern. While she was aware that she had no formal authority in the camp, there was nonetheless a respect that most of the men carried for her that she trusted to hold sway now. “I can vouch for Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton . . . as well as his faulty memory, so it would seem.”  
  
“Ma'am,” Sargeant Smith and his two comrades were hasty to stand upright and salute as properly as they would to her husband. “Beggin' your pardon, Lady Washington,” he faltered to say, all the while fiddling with the barrel of his musket as if he was unsure how to stand at attention before a woman with the weapon held in hand, “but, withou' the password, you see I can't -”  
  
“ - perhaps, Hamilton's lapse should be forgiven, just this once,” Martha suggested. “You may trust my word on his identity, or,” she offered, a soft note of implied warning entering her voice, “I may fetch the general from his council in order to confirm this young man's identity. If the fulfillment of your duty would deem it necessary to have my husband's word on the matter, rather than trusting my own, I understand, of course - ”  
  
“ - oh no, no, no,” Smith was quick to interrupt. Two spots of color appeared high on his dusky cheeks, visible even in the oily lantern light. “The general will not be needed, ma'am, of course not. No,” he repeated with an awkward peal of laughter, “no need for His Excellency's presence. Jimmy,” he turned to the soldier at his right, “you heard 'er Ladyship. Get the bloody gate open _now_.”  
  
Jimmy, Martha assumed, leapt down from the sentry's podium, and with the help of the third soldier got the heavy gate open in no time at all. A moment later, Hamilton's clearly disgruntled form was visible in the shadows as he stepped into the light.  
  
“A thous'nd apologies, Lieutenant Colonel,” Smith was quick to address his superior officer, saluting as formally as he had to Martha herself a moment ago. “I was only tryin' to - ”  
  
Alexander merely scowled to interrupt the other man, “As you were, Sargeant. You may return to your post,” he shooed the sentry away with the low growl. Martha raised a brow, frowning at his tone before noticing the way he gingerly lifted a hand to cover the skin around his right eye . . . the bruised, broken skin, she finally noticed in the faint light, as if he had been _struck_ -  
  
“Alexander Hamilton,” the boy's name was a long-suffering sound from her mouth as the sentries retreated, “just what have you gotten yourself into now?”  
  
Alexander stared at her with his good eye and frowned, leaving her unsure if he resented her censure or her concern. Or, she ruefully acknowledged, perhaps it was both. “I thank you for your aid with the watchmen, ma'am. But, if you don't mind me, I shall be retiring now -”  
  
“Alexander,” Martha said again, more gently this time. “If you think that I will allow you to leave without any further inquiry on the matter, you've learned nothing about me this entire winter through.”  
  
In answer, Alexander merely exhaled though his nose once, long and slow. The motion sounded congested, with his airways clearly blocked from the blow he had so obviously suffered, and she knew a moment's flare of worry for the extent of his wounds. His nose did not appear to be broken, she hesitantly concluded, but it was hard to tell in the shadows. She would need him to come back to the tent to better tell.  
  
“Come,” she bid, this time with a more tangible note of authority in her voice. It was a timbre that she first learned as a wife and mother, and yet honed as the mistress of Mount Vernon. “Allow me to take a look at that.”  
  
“Ma'am,” Alexander nonetheless held fast to try again. “Your concern is touching,” his tone, even so, sounded as if he found it anything but, “but I wish only to retire, and -”  
  
“ - as I am the reason that you were not left to shiver on the other side of the gates 'til morning for your disobeying curfew,” Martha returned with a withering look, “I am surprised that you would try to dissuade me in this.”  
  
Alexander rolled his eyes, as if he was quite done with the whole of the world. “I forget the password _once_ , and now I'll never be able to live it down,” he seethed, more to himself than to her. But he met her eyes to defend in a dark tone of voice, “I have much more important things to remember - too much to think on, really - and my mind's space is too valuable to be clogged with such trifles as _passwords_ , when, instead - ”  
  
“ - Alexander,” gently, Martha interrupted him. “Come, and allow me to look at that for you. Please.”  
  
Still, Alexander regarded her from the corner of his unswollen eye, the same as a wary animal would stare, weighing the risks and the rewards before taking food from the hand of a human being, no matter how well-meaning their intentions. It was time, she knew, to give further incentive.  
  
“The way I see it, you have two options before you, my dear. It is either you allow me to aid you now, or I shall simply send Doctor McHenry to you later,” Martha's voice was as cloying as molasses, even as she waged her threat. The good doctor and Hamilton's fellow aide, for all that he was a sweet, well-meaning fellow, was not a man Martha would describe as _discreet_ when it came to the temptation of a titillating story to share. “You may tell your tale to him and rest assured that _everyone_ will soon know - ”  
  
“ - alright,” finally, Alexander was quick to acquiesce. She smiled, pleased, no matter that his agreement was grudging, and coerced at that. “You win, ma'am. I'll suffer your concern, but only if it means that this story shall never be repeated to that gossiping _hen_ \- ”  
  
“ - you have my word,” Martha was quick to promise. “Now, if you please.”  
  
Mewling at her feet as if to compound her words, the tawny tomcat gave Alexander an uninterested look before trotting off behind her. More of a sulking puppy, it amused Martha to liken him to, it took Alexander a long moment before he resigned himself to following her – albeit a stride behind, the same as a pouting child would when vexed by a parent. She did not let his behavior faze her, however. Instead, she merely raised a brow as she patiently waited for him to catch up, holding the flap to the tent open so that the boy could duck in before her. Alexander eyed the tent as if it were enemy territory before acquiescing with a sigh, and then he was in.  
  
There was a soft glow awaiting them inside the tent, with just enough of the candles lit to see by, and the brazier already had the space comfortably warm against the faint chill of the spring night beyond them. Waiting for the general's return, Billy Lee was polishing the used tack from earlier that day, and he immediately stood to light more candles and inquire of her needs. She waved her husband's valet aside, telling him that George would no doubt be late that night - too late for him to wait up - and assured him that she would attend to the her husband's needs when he did retire. She only asked for him to fetch a cold compress from the ice-house before turning in for the night, and Billy's gaze was curious as he sought out Alexander's wounds in the now unforgiving light, understanding bright in his dark brown eyes.  
  
After the valet left, Martha did not immediately move to tend Alexander's face, content as she was to let him deal with the smarting throb of his pains for a few minutes more. Instead, she turned to feed the mother cat the scraps she had gleaned from Cook, keeping a careful eye on the tomcat to make sure that he did not give in to the temptation the morsels of meat presented. She did not have to swat the tom away to insure that his lady fed, she was pleased to see; instead, the tabby gave a warning hiss that the male seemed content to obey. He soon lost interest in the female and squirming young ones, awakened by the light and the noise. Instead, he jaunted over to nimbly hop up and claim his preferred perch on George's chair – a spot he tended to occupy whether or not the general was first seated there, at that. From there he looked down on the domestics with a deceivingly lazy eye, his tail flickering behind him all the while.  
  
Martha merely shook her head at the feline antics, and watched as the kittens peaked out from their mother's nest, charmed by the way they could stumble and fall while still retaining a cat's distinctive sort of poise and grace. They seemed more interested in Alexander than anything else, it tickled her to observe, who merely looked down on the tiny balls of fur with a furrowed line deepening between his brows.  
  
“I've always been more of a dog person, myself,” Alexander finally drawled, subtly taking a step to the right to free his boot from the attentions of a curious little kitten. The kitten, a female as golden as her sire, doggedly gave pursuit.  
  
“On a farm, one learns to give up preferences rather quickly,” Martha confessed, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “Between the barn-cats and George's hounds there's scarcely a corner of our estate that has not been claimed by the animal kingdom, or so it seems at times. Though,” she acknowledged with a note of fondness, “my husband has always been partial to horses.”  
  
“That,” Alexander stated with an air of wounded dignity, “I already happen to know all too well.”  
  
Knowing that there was a story behind his dislike for the creatures, but unwilling to pry when she knew her company would be reticent in reply, she chose to let the comment go.  
  
Billy chose then to return with the cold compress, and, more thoughtfully, he also brought with him a small basin of still steaming hot water and a clean, boiled rag from the surgeon's cabin. He reminded her where the small medicinal kit was kept in the tent, and Martha thanked him for the ice and provisions before wishing him a good evening. She watched him leave, and counted to ten after the entrance to the tent closed. Only then did she turn to Alexander and gesture for him to take a seat.  
  
“I do not need _Lady Washington_ to play the nursemaid for me,” for a moment, Alexander stubbornly continued to hold his ground. “This should be a task beneath the dignity of the general's wife.”  
  
Holding back her urge to point out that a woman's usefulness in camp was judged not by her her willingness to bear arms and plot strategy, but by her proficiency with the sewing needle - whether it be through cloth or flesh, for the surgeon's cabins were now mostly populated by female nurses - she gestured again. At seeing a promising sort of something in her eyes – truly, she would not budge from this – he at last acquiesced to her order with a sigh, and shooed the cat down so that he could sit with an overly rigid posture in George's chair. There was a moment's challenge in his eyes, as if he expected her to chastise his doing so, but she pointedly chose to ignore his petulance as she took the chair next to him and pulled it closer.  
  
“I'd rather you think of me as Martha, or Mrs. Washington if you must; I'm already little comfortable with the title of _Lady_ Washington as it is,” she countered his last remark as she laid her small kit of medicinal supplies on the wooden table. Alexander eyed them as if they were foreign instruments all. “And Martha was a mother before she was a general's wife. Some things never change, no matter the time that passes.”  
  
“Did your son often get himself into scrapes such as this?” Alexander asked, the words spilling as if he uttered them before giving conscious thought to his doing so. She thought that he regretted the familiarity they presumed as soon as he registered their speaking.  
  
“I am yet unsure of what sort of _scrape_ you got into,” she answered in a tone that promised that that too was a story she intended to hear before the night was up. “But, any wounds John ever bore were mostly due to accidents, not violence.” Her son was not a warring soul; to the contrary, he arrogantly viewed soldiering as a pastime for those too low in wealth and station to do otherwise. Such was an opinion he had often touted, no doubt where she could not hear when he was younger, and then loudly so in his later years, uncaring of her censure when he was neatly settled with his late father's fortune and a family of his own.  
  
Martha frowned, remembering her son's final words to her when she set out for Morristown, surprised to this day by the curl of his lip and the baffled sort of disdain he held for her need to join her husband on the battlefront, with words he had bitten away when she left for Cambridge the winter before then given without discrimination to . . .  
  
. . . but she shook her head as if to better clear the memory away, and instead focused on Alexander as she leaned closer to the ruin of tissue and swollen flesh about his eye. In the light, the wound looked worse than she suspected it truly was. Though his flesh was superficially red and inflamed around the orb, his eye itself followed her easily enough, and she noticed no blood within the pupil and iris. There was a cut atop the bridge of his nose – whoever struck him must have worn a ring – but when she prodded the area of broken skin, it did not appear that his nose was broken. The only blood on his face dripped from the cut left from the ring, and she was satisfied with her inspection a moment later.  
  
“Now,” Martha gently prompted as she wet a rag to clean away the blood, “are you going to tell me what happened?”  
  
“If it could be avoided,” Alexander's voice was muffled as he submitted to her ministrations, “I'd rather not.”  
  
She simply continued to pat the blood away, waiting a moment, and then two. Where Alexander had seemingly held steel for a spine when he first sat down, the barest edge of his severe posture yielded as she cleaned the blood away from his skin. He exhaled, deep from his chest, and only winced when she attempted to clean the drying blood from around his cut. No matter his discomfort, he continued to hold himself very still. He did not move his head away.  
  
“It is quite alright, you need not tell me,” Martha said with a thoughtful note to her voice. She watched, seeing where the hand he had resting on his thigh paused its restless tapping – as if he was ever processing some thought, with his words forming and reshaping like the undulation of an ocean wave – as he weighed her statement for sincerity. She forced her expression to poised stillness to continue, “I am sure to hear the whole of the affair come the morrow – between your fellow aides and the ladies in camp, someone is bound to know some version of what happened. I would, however, rather hear your tale of events first. If only to set the record straight, of course.”  
  
His eyes narrowed, not for a moment confusing coercion for generosity, no matter how sweetly her words were spun. Nonetheless, she had presented the situation as it was, and she now trusted him to consider the validity of conscripting an ally to his side. She waited, and then -  
  
“I was somewhat . . . less than subtle when sneaking into the rooms Lord Stirling leased for the ladies of his household in the village,” Alexander finally confessed when she returned the wet rag to its basin. He held his jaw very stiffly, as if every word he spoke was forced from his tongue. “As a stroke of ill fortune would have it, one Colonel William Duer caught me with an . . . incriminating piece of correspondence, and assumed that the cat who had her claws stuck in my heart was his _Lady_ Kitty . . . not dear _cousin_ Kitty, whom I had intended the letter to reach.”  
  
“Alexander,” Martha sighed out through her nose, unsure where she wished to begin in commenting. She had suspected that it was something of this sort when she first found him returning from the village, but to hear it confirmed . . .  
  
“Don't worry for me, ma'am,” Alexander's voice was sharp as he waved a hand. “In the end, William was worse for the wear than I, and quite pleased to have Lady Kitty nursing his pains inflected by the _West Indian brute_. Anyway, I do believe that we shall be friends, now that the air has been cleared between us. I cannot help but respect such a right hook as his, anyway.”  
  
The way of boys, Martha was certain, she would never fully understand. Though the cut was not deep enough to require any further attention, she coated a clean swab with one of the poultices McHenry had stocked to guard against infection and swelling, and began applying it with a careful hand. Alexander only bit back a hiss when she tended his cut, the wound being still tender, even if the sluggish bleeding had at last clotted and stopped.  
  
“A letter?” she prompted next. “What sort of letter had Colonel Duer so put out?”  
  
Alexander narrowed his eyes at some point over her shoulder, and his mouth pressed in a thin line as he remembered. For a moment, she did not think that he would answer her.  
  
“It was less a letter, and more an . . . invitation,” at the very least, Alexander had the good grace to blush at the words. “That, along with a list extolling the lady's many positive . . . _attributes_ prompted Colonel Duer to reach his own conclusions.”  
  
Though she'd first told herself she wouldn't, she gave a sharp sort of exhale to hear his full story. “You, young man, are incorrigible.” Perhaps she dabbed one last time at the his open wound with less finesse than she had first applied, and had the faint satisfaction of seeing the boy wince. “You know,” she pointed out, somewhat crossly, “I had only just devoted a good deal of effort earlier today in defending your honor in such matters against those who would seek to defame it.”  
  
“I am a soldier,” Alexander gave with a shrug of his shoulders, as if in those few words there was explanation enough for everything. She stared at him for a moment, taking in the remarkable depths of his eyes and the uniquely striking shape of his features - his dark appeal further lit by the passion of his convictions as he now was moved. She could well understand why Kitty Livingston, and many other girls, were drawn to him as a moth to a flame. “It's to I to do or die,” Alexander continued, “and it's somewhat premature of me to assume that I will survive this conflict amongst the living, would not you say? The same as those Roman soldiers under Augustus who refused a spouse during their time spent warring for their country, so too shall it be for me. I seek no truer attachment to my heart than America – but that does not mean that I cannot notice, and thus appreciate the beauty of her daughters in the meantime. My heart is large enough for that.”  
  
“Your heart?” Martha raised a brow, glancing up from where she was rolling the ice in a new cloth for him to set against his wound. “I do believe that you may be confusing impetuses, my dear.”  
  
“To the contrary,” Alexander hesitated only a moment before he pushed on boldly - honestly - to say, “Kitty and I have an understanding – she has as much wish to be a bride as I do a bridegroom; for now, our attachment suits us both. I do not see how this is difficult to understand.”  
  
And she could not see how he did not understand. “You sell yourself, and your lady, short with such a utilitarian view of romance.” Martha felt her mouth form a delicate sort of frown to say. “You have much to offer a wife, and the fulfillment of matrimony is more than the slaking of such idle lusts as you feel now – and do not try to say that this is not more than that, for any deeper sort of attachment and you would think twice before shaming the girl with merely a flirtation as you intend.” She watched as the curve of his cheeks finally turned pink, his complexion seemingly fighting to match the angry red skin around his eye. Yet she pushed on – for the boy had no mother to tell him such things, and he would certainly listen not to any of the older men in their camp who would endeavor to offer him advice – her husband included. She did not, Martha imagined with a long-suffering sigh, trust what his friends would have to say on the matter, at that.  
  
“And how is there shame?” Alexander did not quite agree with her assessment of the matter, and he did not hesitate to share his opinions - boldly so. “Women feel their passions as acutely as any man – more so, in some ways, I find – and to put a lady on a pedestal of chastity while a man may be allowed - ”  
  
“ - and is it not for that feeling of _more_ that you should endeavor to protect the 'weaker' sex, as a man?” Martha countered. “A woman may say she has no interest in commitment, and she may even mean it, but hearts nonetheless get involved in such interactions as these. The result is oftentimes pain and heartbreak inflected, even unintentionally so, without the trust that commitment inspires in a romantic relationship.”  
  
“And, if neither participant desires such a partnership, what then?” Alexander still refused to understand her words. She looked, seeing where his jaw made a square shape; his mouth settled in a frustrated line as the tapping cadence of his fingers doubled in speed. This was not a conversation he wished to be having, she knew, and she heard a whispering voice inside of her warning to tread carefully before his words turned to cutting. Yet, she cared for this boy – deeply and truly so for having only known him for less than a winter's time. If even two of her words would influence his future happiness, she would speak the hundred needed to ensure those two were heard.  
  
She picked up the cold compress when she was satisfied with it, and at last formulated her reply, “I cannot answer that, Alexander. All that I can say is this: someday, you will meet a woman whom you can imagine as an agreeable friend and partner for the rest of your days. It is then, when you can see a relationship even beyond that first cusp of passion, that you know you have found the right one. When you find such a woman, treating her as idly as you do Kitty Livingston now will be unthinkable to your mind. You will not be able to bear it.”  
  
“Tell me, ma'am, did you learn such wisdom with your first husband, or your second?” Caught holding the ice a hair's breath from his face, she saw the precise moment where the familiar nature of their conversation had stretched overly long in the eyes of her guest. Alexander's gaze narrowed in a minute warning, and his mouth was then a lashing shape to continue, “Was it not Daniel Curtis whom you married for comfort and means, and when he was gone but his fortune still remained you took the general, vastly inferior in wealth and property to you, because you no doubt saw in him what _I_ see in Miss Livingston - ”  
  
\- Martha interrupted him by slapping the packet of ice against his eye with more force than was strictly necessary. He hissed, and had to react quickly to hold the compress against his skin before it fell. She merely watched him for a long moment, observing where a new flush stole over his cheeks, and knew that he chastised himself for the unthinking spill of his words, even before she could. She breathed in with the last of her provoked, ill emotions, and then exhaled.  
  
“I understand that you did not mean that,” was all that she said as to his unkindness. “Yet, forget your tongue again, and I shall ask you to leave, are we clear?”  
  
“Yes, ma'am,” Alexander's voice was soft to reply, and he did not immediately meet her eyes again.  
  
Silence stretched between them, soft and strained. Beyond them was the quite murmur of the army camp at night – the singing of some soldiers at their evening fire and the distant neighing of the horses in their pens. She closed her eyes, letting both of their tempers cool before trying, one last time, to say, “If my counsel presumed too much upon familiarity, I apologize. Someday, if you wish it, you shall make some woman a fine husband . . . that is all I meant to say. I only believe that you do yourself a disservice in believing that you do not have the right to even look.”  
  
For, she suspected, that was truly the heart of the matter. Alexander Hamilton would not dwell with a woman in poverty - not as his own mother had been abandoned with children to care for and debts to handle - so he would not look seriously for a wife until he was in a position to do so. Better was it to flirt and exercise his passions with amiable young women such as Miss Livingston, who would expect nothing more from him, than to truly allow himself to love a woman and dare to ask her to wait for what he knew he could accomplish in the world. He had come so far in life already, but the idea of asking a wife to linger in stasis as he went further still was something he would not do.  
  
“Yet, what woman would have me?” unerringly, Alexander followed her thoughts to echo. He spoke without either gild or derision to his tongue, and she thought that in those few quiet words she heard Alexander speak truly, as himself. “Even Kitty Livingston, for all that she and her father both think highly of me, would suffer me not marrying into their family. I am penniless, without future prospects or even a complete education to recommend me. The son of a loose woman and a drunk debtor, a bastard orphan not even born on American soil . . . what father would want that for his daughter? Oh, I know what I am worth, and I know what I will accomplish in this life, but that is not necessarily enough to prevail upon for a marriage. I may have some fame at the end of this, and a few names of note to recommend me, and yet - ”  
  
“ - yet, do you not have you, _yourself_ , to offer?” Martha did not quite agree with his own, oddly disparaging yet arrogant view of his self-worth. “It shall simply take the right woman to see that; you do yourself a disservice in imagining that she does not exist.”  
  
“You speak pretty words, ma'am,” Alexander snorted to say. He gave a small wince as he pushed the ice more firmly to his eye. “But I do not need you to stretch the truth of my reality; I have long accepted it, and made my peace.”  
  
“I stretch no reality but my own,” Martha shook her head to counter. Her mouth stretched in a wry line to continue, “Or do you so soon forget that I took a husband, as you delighted to point out, who was vastly beneath me in terms of wealth and property? I made my decision based on my heart – just as my first husband did when marrying me, as I was not nearly equal to his family's idea of good breeding and fortune. More matches are made for affection than you would think – especially with this war teaching us to value such connections as the precious gifts they are all the more so. And I know that you are capable of great love, of great loyalty; to some woman, that will be worth more than any fortune or prestige you may not _yet_ have to recommend you.”  
  
Her words were baldly stated, her heart spoken of without half-words or prettily veiled meanings, and Alexander stared at her as if he did not quite know what to make of her candor. For a moment, she wondered if she had once again stretched the bonds of familiarity between them, before watching as, slowly, he nodded. He listened, and even if he did not quite agree with her, he allowed himself to trust that she held such an opinion as an absolute truth within her own mind, even so.  
  
There was a heartbeat where _something_ filling his eyes, she next thought . . . something warm and timid – a thing as small as the crocus flowers struggling to bloom amongst the thawing ice and snow – and she waited, feeling as if he wished to speak. And yet, he closed his mouth with a clicking sound of his teeth, and visibly swallowed. He blinked, and looked away from her.  
  
“Yet, for now,” his words were blithe with an exaggerated humor when he looked back to her, “I need no wife but for the truest form of love and devotion I bear my brothers in arms. In the meantime, my heart shall be content with merely worshiping at the altar of Venus until the day such a woman appears.”  
  
“Such a pagan devotion shall someday do you harm, young man,” Martha sighed through her nose to say. She understood his humor for what it was, however, and resigned herself to letting the moment go.  
  
“Perhaps,” Alexander's mouth stretched in a roguish expression to say, “I simply have not met a woman such as yourself. I shall be content merely looking until she is found - ”  
  
“Now,” Martha arched a brow, little impressed, “you _are_ being a flirt.”  
  
“ – for, who wants a Venus, when one may have a Vesta, or a Minerva,” Alexander happily continued as if she had not spoken at all.  
  
“I have always been partial to Ceres, myself,” dryly, Martha allowed herself to interject.  
   
“The feral mother? Of course you would favor her,” Alexander chuckled. “A pity you do not have your _Proserpina_ still alive to see the great advent of our conflict. Something tells me that I could have had my needs well met there.” For all that his words were light, there was a softening about his features as he alluded to her daughter, and she inclined her head, accepting the olive branch of solace for what it was.  
  
“I do not know,” Martha pointed out a heartbeat later, her face smoothed into a serious mask of contemplation to say, “My Patsy too favored horses, much like her father.”  
  
“Or, I would have been content in preserving her honor from the unscrupulous rakes so presiding in this camp,” Alexander pursed his mouth to say, mentally quick on his feet to rescind his statement. “Untrustworthy rogues, the lot of them are.”  
  
“That,” Martha commented, and meant her words true, “I would have delighted to see.”  
  
She gave the boy a soft sort of look, and for a moment Alexander merely stared at her. He lowered the ice from his eye, and fiddled for a moment with the cloth, before, hesitantly -  
  
\- but the tomcat chose just then to try and reclaim his seat in George's chair. He jumped up, a blur of golden fur and carefully determined claws, to -  
  
“Blasted devil!” Alexander exclaimed, startled when the cat's lashing tail came dangerously close to spilling the basin of now soiled water on him, and reached out to steady the bowl while Martha stretched forward to swat at the cat.  
  
“Down, Hamilton!” she scolded the now hissing tom. “You know better.”  
  
It took another shooing motion for the tomcat to gracelessly concede defeat – he nimbly struck the ground on his feet, and walked away with his head erect and his tail held high, as if he was a general who had just presented his sword in surrender, mewling his ire all the while. From her nest, the mother cat watched the scene unfold as she cleaned her young from their adventures, and her tail flicked as if in laughter.  
  
“Arrogant brute,” Martha shook her head to say, moving the medical supplies away from the edge of the table unless they had had their unwelcome visitor returned, unaware that, all the while, Alexander stared at her with a beleaguered sort of expression.  
  
“I beg your pardon,” Alexander finally blinked as if to call himself back to order. For a moment, she simply enjoyed that she could move him to any sort of speechlessness - she having an inkling of what had thrown him. “But did you call the cat what I _think_ you just did?”  
  
“Hamilton?” Martha repeated as glibly as she could. “Why yes, yes I did.”  
  
“And what,” Alexander sounded as if he was pushed to the limits of patience, and unable to understand why his Herculean self-restraint was not better appreciated, “possessed you to do such a thing?”  
  
“Oh, I don't know,” Martha answered, knowing that her eyes were sparkling, but unable to keep herself from continuing, “you have certain characteristics in common with the cat that could not be ignored.”  
  
“In common?” Alexander parroted – his face screwed up into a somewhat unattractive expression of bewilderment, she liked to notice. _“With the cat?”_  
  
“Well, you are both too handsome for your own good, and certainly aware of your appeal,” Martha continued as she went about tidying up. She did not bother looking up as she continued with a blithe, matter of fact sort of tone to say, “Then, there is a certain arrogance and force of personality to consider - ”  
  
“ - _charisma_ , I would prefer to say,” Alexander cut in, sounding quite persecuted.  
  
“ - clearly he thinks he is the smartest in the room, and as I am so clearly left cleaning up after his messes . . .” she waved a hand, gesturing to the purring mother cat and her now drowsy kittens. She need say nothing more than that.  
  
Alexander regarded her with a tense, pursed lip sort of expression. She had him there, she knew, and he could not quite comment without incriminating himself further. Good, was Martha's only thought. Perhaps he would think of this lesson, and reflect on its meaning every time he heard the tomcat's name spoken.  
  
“You know,” Alexander pointed out, glaring at his namesake with no small amount of distaste, “it is only going to take _once_ for the general shooing the cat off his lap to be overheard, and I will never be able to live down the shame and ignominy of it. Good Lord, if only _Laurens_ heard it, any sort of reputation I have gained will then be - ”  
  
“ - the ignominy of what, Hamilton?”  
  
Just like that, the relaxed, comfortable pose Alexander had adopted disappeared completely. Iron returned to his bones, and a careful stillness froze the amiability from his expression. He stood, presenting his wounded face to the light as he saluted her husband with a terse, exacting precision. Martha watched the transformation with a sad sort of expression, already missing the boy Alexander had allowed her to glimpse for those few short minutes as the soldier took his place.  
  
“Nothing, Your Excellency,” Alexander answered the general's question in a crisp, formal manner. “It is of little importance.”  
  
Martha looked, noticing where George too had observed the young man's change in demeanor. Her husband looked tired, she thought, enervated beyond the burdens of the war and its tribulations, and she watched as he squared his shoulders against his own fatigue to ask, “Hamilton, what happened to your eye?”  
  
“Nothing of any importance, sir,” Alexander answered again. “Simply a disagreement with a fellow officer . . . over the matter of _cats_ ; it has quite been settled now." His eyes flickered to her, and she saw something in his gaze that may have been shared humor before that too flickered and disappeared. "Though Lady Washington would not let me retire until she saw to my wounds," he added. "It was a kindness on her part.”  
  
George frowned, but did not immediately give in to the clear wish he had to speak. It was a familiar look to her, knowing that he wanted to inquire further, but yet forced himself to bite back both concern and censure all at once. It was not quite unlike how he had ever looked at her own son - only, with Jacky there had been a sort of exasperation lining the look, born by years of having his attempts met only halfway, with little of respect and even less of filial tenderness given in return. With this boy, however . . .  
  
Martha felt a pang, knowing that for all of Hamilton's want and drive and ambition for _more_ , he would not suffer the fruits reaped by that ambition to be attributed to the affection born between a man with no sons and a fatherless boy. It was a chasm between them, uncrossable and deep, and it brought an echoing rift to her heart to observe it as such.  
  
Whatever George wished to say, he clearly bit it away to instead inquire, “You are well, then?”  
  
“Well enough,” Alexander answered, his syllables clipped. “This shall not interfere with the fulfillment of my duties.”  
  
“And,” George continued, slowly, as if to keep from any sort of frustration in his tone, “the officer you . . . disagreed with?”  
  
“He's no worse than I, sir,” Alexander answered. “Our . . . quarrel is settled, and such shall not happen again, you have my word.”  
  
“Good,” George nodded his head crisply. “I trust that you understand what any further altercations while you bear such rank and privileges in this army shall mean?” A stern line entered his voice, the words that were required by a commander to his erring subordinate nonetheless resulting in a further stiffening of their guest's posture.  
    
“Yes, sir,” Alexander inclined his head. “Of course, sir.”  
  
Martha watched, holding her breath as George looked at Alexander as if waiting for something. Alexander, she noticed, had picked a point on the wall, and was simply staring. He waited for further judgment, for punishment, even, and was content to stoically endure whatever pains were required as penance and then move on. But he would say nothing more.  
  
Finally, George sighed, shaking his head in a barely perceivable manner to expel his own overflow of emotion on the matter. Even so, Alexander noticed the minute expression, and something about his posture lost its edge when he realized that he would bear no further criticism from the general. “If you would not mind, sir, ma'am," he said at last, hesitantly so and then with greater strength to his voice, "I would take my leave now. The hour is late.”  
  
“Of course,” George dismissed him on an exhale. “Good evening, Lieutenant Colonel.”  
  
Alexander wasted no time in giving a sharp, formal salute and bow before turning smartly on his heel, and he was then gone.  
  
For a long moment, George simply stared at where the boy had disappeared, and she watched as, slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders and spine. He looked, she thought, as a great tree sagging its branches in want for rain.  
  
“Lord Stirling,” George said after a moment, raising a hand to rub at his temples in an uncharacteristic expression of weariness, “was quite . . . put out when he joined our council late this evening.”  
  
“I can imagine,” Martha replied after a heartbeat, having already guessed that her husband knew the whole of the affair – no matter what Alexander would prefer to believe. George looked at her, and seemed somewhat satisfied that Alexander had confided in one of them, at least.  
  
“Be grateful that a blackened eye is all that he has to show for the encounter,” was his next comment on the matter, his voice taking on a dark note. “Lord Stirling was ready to duel for his daughter's honor, and I used more force than I would have preferred in order to keep the situation from drawing blood.”  
  
“Was not Lord Stirling young and twenty before? It was nothing more than the exuberance of youth – and the young ones settled it between them, without too much harm done,” Martha pointed out in a wry tone of voice, trying to cut through the tension still binding her husband, now that the moment was over. “Were _you_ not young and not quite twenty before?” she continued, her eyes glittering to confess, “I know that I was.”  
  
“At twenty, I was mourning the unexpected misfortune of my brother's death and adjusting to the sudden responsibility of my new role in life as the master of his estate,” George did not easily accept her attempts to calm him. “It was then I too picked up a sword, and there was . . . there was no time to play the flirt during the Seven Years' War - not on such a wild, unforgiving frontline as that one was. Men had to grow with sobering speed on those battlefields; there was no alternative.”  
  
“Yet, you were not so bad at it when you returned home,” Martha pointed out, her gaze sparkling with the memory. He had carried himself as a war hero, as if he was still marching through the wild Ohio territory, rather than striding through the soft tranquility of a Virginian parlor. There had been no awkwardness or hesitation when he was presented to her, no sign that he acknowledged that he was vastly beneath the men she had vying for her hand in terms of wealth and power of prestige. Then, the fact that he had looked her in the eyes, rather than through her - beyond her and off towards her fortune and land - had drawn her interest from the start, and held it. Then, on that second meeting, for her to present her children as a challenge - well aware of her suitors who thought only of the family _they'd_ have, rather than the family she already cherished . . . for him to kneel and hold his arms out to Patsy, just then learning how to take her first steps unaided . . . looking, for all the world, as if the girl stole his heart quite before her mother did . . .  
  
There were things greater than wealth and circumstance of birth, Martha knew; there was strength of heart and the indomitable quality of determination for _more_. The right woman, the right _father_ , would see that and want such a prize for his daughter. For any woman who did not, then they were not worthy of a man such as Alexander Hamilton anyway.  
  
_Feral mother_ , _indeed,_ Martha thought with a warring pang of fondness and humor. Perhaps Alexander was right on that account.  
  
“You made it easy,” was George's answer, given without thought; and it was the simple honesty in his voice that endeared him to her all over again. There was a soft look in his eyes as she stood and crossed over to him, allowing him to fold her into his embrace with the comfortable ease of long familiarity. She had known love in her life once before him; truly, she had only been looking for friendship and a partner for her days in her second marriage But, to instead be gifted to find . . .  
  
She felt her heart clench, once again praying that Providence not take this from her by either a stray bullet or a hangman's noose should America suffer defeat in their conflict. She did not know if she was strong enough to suffer such a blow in her life once more . . . many things did she consider herself strong enough to endure, but not that. Not again.  
  
“He is just a young man. A boy who, for all that he has come far in this life - triumphing against odds I still cannot quite believe when I consider them - is still figuring out what he wants from his days,” Martha found her thoughts unable to completely stray from Alexander - not yet. “Someday, for all that he would demure, he will make some happy woman a fine husband.”  
  
“Some very _patient_ woman,” George could not help but drolly remark.  
  
“Aren't we all?” Martha returned, standing up on the very tips of her toes so that she could cradle her husband's face in her hands. He leaned down to touch his brow to hers, and she could not quite tell which of them drew strength from whom. "The best of us are."

 

**Author's Note:**

> **A Few Notes of Interest:**
> 
> **Martha Bland** : Her comments on the amiable young men in Washington's camp - and Hamilton, in particular - are paraphrased from real-life quotes, and the inspiration behind this one-shot.
> 
>  **The Kittys** : Were both in Morristown at this time, and Hamilton did have some very . . . risqué letters that he passed with Kitty Livingston, though she was carefully coy in not committing to her replies past the bonds of propriety, as far as we know.
> 
>  **William Duer** : Ends up as an Assistant Treasury Secretary, and Hamilton accounted him a friend before his bankruptcy and sad downfall in life. 
> 
> **The Password** : His forgetting the safe-code due to a busy mind was not his imitating BBC's Sherlock Holmes. Hamilton really did forgot the password - though when courting Eliza, later on in the war - and the watchman had pity on the 'Love-struck Colonel' and let him in. All of these fun-facts I gleaned from the chapter of that same name in Chernow's biography of Hamilton.
> 
>  **Hamilton the Cat** : Martha Washington's naming the tomcat was an anecdote John Adams liked to tell later in life - so it can be taken with a grain of salt, obviously. But, it is too fun an idea to ignore, and since LMM made it so, the frame-work of this story pretty much wrote itself from there.
> 
> For any further questions, please feel free to drop me a line in the comments - I always enjoy talking about these characters and this time-period. :)


End file.
